


Bourbon, Smokes & Blood

by JuweWright



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dancing, F/M, Gen, Other, Pre-Series, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-19 00:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuweWright/pseuds/JuweWright
Summary: "There's no God," he replied dryly, licking his lips. "At least I have never met him."She tasted like spring and hope and dreams. She tasted fresh and clean. And he gulped down mouthful after mouthful of her blood.Spike and Damon happen to meet each other again and again. As friends, as rivals and as enemies. Starts off in 1894.





	1. 1894/1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1894 - In which two vampires meet for the first time under less-than-perfect circumstances.

**1894 - United Kingdom**

Being immortal had its advantages. That much he had learned in the last decade. He had also learned that being a vampire, with all the added extras of strength, agility and speed and the fact that suddenly all women – and some men – found you incredibly attractive, did not automatically protect you from making terminally stupid decisions. Decisions that could end you in prison that had been reinforced by people who knew what they were doing. Well, one person, singular, who knew what he was doing because he was a vampire as well.

Spike swore under his breath and rattled the chains that bound him to the stone wall of the prison cell. A rat ran across the floor and he gulped. “The Immortal” as that asshole of a blood-thirsty maniac called himself, did not believe in feeding prisoners. And Spike was hungry. He had been hungry for a while. Even that rat looked like a nice snack and rat blood tasted disgusting. Also, not much blood in those animals, really, they weren’t even a mouth full.

Before he could drift off into fantasies about beautiful, pale necks and how his fangs broke through skin and drew blood, a conundrum could be heard from the doors down the hallway.

“Seriously, guys?” he heard somebody complain in what he made out as an American accent. “Tax evasion? You must be kidding me.”

Three figures appeared in the dim light. Spike already was acquainted with the two guards. They were servants of “The Immortal” who willingly did all the dirty work for the tosser. He was quite satisfied to see that one of them still sported quite a huge scar over his right brow. It took some serious damage to leave marks on a vampire’s skin. And even the scar would vanish soon enough. But Spike couldn’t help but be a little proud of himself anyways.

The guards were flanking a guy whom Spike had never seen before. He was of average height, perhaps a bit better off than most in the muscle department and had unruly black hair. His ice blue eyes looked enraged and when he bared his fangs, his handsome face distorted into a predatory snarl.

The guards didn’t care. They were used to handling anyone who crossed “The Immortal”. Two minutes later, the dark-haired guy had been confined to the chains on the opposite wall and the guards had left again. Dark-and-handsome (he really wasn’t tall), struggled against his chains, letting out a scream that was wilder than his gentlemanly clothing and overall looks would have suggested. He looked like an aristocrat with his fine attire. Just Spike’s luck, the kid probably was one. New money, America, south, slaves and all that jazz.

“Hey,” he said, when the kid had finally accepted the fact that there was no way he’d break out of this cell by sheer force. “I’m Spike. Would say it’s nice to meet you, but considering the circumstances, I’d much rather become acquainted somewhere else.”

“Damon,” his opposite responded with a nod.

“American?”

“Damn, you can still hear that, can’t you? I’m trying to get this accent straight but it’s harder than you’d think.”

“What brings you to good old Britain?”

“None of your business.”

“Okay, admittedly, yes. I was trying to make conversation. Then how about we skip the small talk and get down to business directly.”

“What business?”

“The business of how the heck we are going to break out of this cell. Me, you, our combined brain-power. I take it you’re not an idiot, so we might actually stand a chance.”


	2. 1894/2

It turned out – after futile attempts of escaping that all ended with lots of pain and lots of hunger - their only chance was paying a shitload of money, respectively having it paid by their most hated friends. 

"You know, I really shouldn't have bailed you out," Angelus and Stefan said more or less simultaneously, whilst dragging their weakened charges out of the prison and into the lantern lit night. 

"Why did you do it then?" Spike enquired with a raised brow, leaning against a wall, pretending it was just to look cool and not because he needed support to be able to stand. 

"Drusilla made me. I seriously don't know what she sees in you, but she almost begged. I can't say no to a lady, so I did as she wanted. Get yourself some blood, though, before you seek her out. You look pitiful."

"No worries." 

Spike turned towards Damon. The man looked even worse than Spike felt. Hunger could turn the most handsome guys into sad creatures. 

"Care to join me for a bite? I usually don't share, but your idea with that weird foreign anti-vamp-weed you carry with you almost worked, so I'm going to give you credit for not being a complete moron."

Damon shrugged and grinned.

"Why not. Your idea with the hole in the wall to let the sunlight in was complete bullshit, considering the fact that they kept us in a cellar, but I guess not everybody can be born with brains."

Stefan didn't look too pleased at the prospect of his younger brother running off with his new-found acquaintance instead of thanking him properly for coming all the way from America just to save his sorry ass, but Damon was not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing him say the words "thank you". Never. He'd never thank Stefan for anything. Not after the betrayal. Not after Katherine. Not after he had made him turn when he'd been decided on dying.

After their saviours had left them alone, the dark-haired ex-soldier and the blonde ex-poet made their way down the street, slowly, as both of them still didn't trust their legs to carry them very far. Luckily, "The Immortal" had them imprisoned in one of the shadier parts of the city and only a few blocks later, they entered the milieu. There were quite a few girls out on the streets, advertising their business in the usual way, displaying more of their white bosoms than was appropriate and showing off quite a bit of stocking when pulling up their skirts. 

"Hello boys", one brunette flirted. "How about us?"

Damon gave her a once over as did Spike before they nodded to each other.

"I'm all in favour," Spike hummed. "But it would be so much more fun if you could bring a friend or two along."

They looked wealthy enough in their suits – the dim light did not reveal the stains on their shirts and the dust on their trousers – and the girl did not hesitate a second before waving two other prostitutes over. They were a good mix, Damon noted, one of them white-blonde, the other one a red-head with lots of freckles. All of them were around his age, well, the age he had been before his immortal state.

"Follow me, gentlemen", the brunette smiled and led the way down a shady alley and into one of the brick buildings, up a flight of stairs into a room that was neither beautiful nor comfortable. The only positive thing about the den was that there was a bed, quite a big one at that, and a carpet that looked thick enough to be able to soak up any excess liquid should one of them lose it enough to spill it. Chances were, they wouldn't need it though. They were both thirsty enough not to want to waste a single drop.


	3. 1912

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first delve into Buffy AND TVD fanfiction. I recently got hooked on the latter and the last show I was that addicted to was Buffy (I was late on the bandwaggon for that as well, which is good, because it made binge-watching possible). I have a thing for Spike and I have a thing for Damon and somehow, I ended up toying with the idea what these two would do if they knew each other. In one episode of TVD, Damon mentioned having been on the Titanic when it sank. That was enough to send me down a pretty large rabbit hole, because I had a Titanic-obsessive phase as well, when I was younger.  
> So... here comes the first bit of 1912... and a very pissed off Damon.

1912 - HMS Titanic

Somebody had been feeding off his supplies. Damon realized it even before he entered the confined space of third class accommodation on the HMS Titanic. The evening before, he had picked out two girls from the crowd who had been all too willing to spend some quality time with him. He’d been drinking from both of them, but as they were pleasant enough company, he had left them alive, compelling them to be his playmates for the rest of the journey. Apart from them having to cover up the bites, he’d not even have to do that. He was a gentleman after all. They were flattered beyond stupidity by his ‘interest’ in them. He’d found that there was a Chrysler standing in the park deck which was roomy enough for three. The fact that the driver had locked his car had not been an obstacle. Lock picking wasn’t even a challenge any more. Not leaving any stains on the car seats was, though. 

After all, Helen and Mary had been delightful company. Both of them were from Ireland. Both of them dreamed of a better life in the United States and if he did not grow weary of them before they reached port, he might actually make their dream come true. At least that had been his plan. And now, Helen was gone. 

Vampire hearing was excellent and Helen was never quiet – unless she was asleep. So he should have been able to hear her from afar just as he could hear Mary who was currently chatting to one of the children that crowded the third class like rats. Damon wasn’t daft. He knew that there was only one logical explanation for Helen’s absence. 

Picking up a scent down here was almost impossible. There were too many people who had not washed for a long time. The air was stale with sweat and other odours. You could have cut through it with a knife. The only way to survive in this den without choking was actually to shut down your olfactory functions completely. So no chance in sniffing her out then. He’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. 

Mary was singing to a very dirty six-year-old girl, when he walked up to her. She blushed and a wide smile appeared on her face. The girl wasn’t pretty, not in the way the upper-class ladies were pretty. Not in the way that Katherine had been pretty. She was much younger than any of these girls. Younger and yet wiser. Life had not treated her too well and left its marks. And that was exactly why she was fascinating. She should have been sad or cynical or rough or cold, but she was open and kind and warm and full of hope for her future. Helen was much the same. They had grown up together in a small town close to Wexford and they had shared their dreams from a very young age. They were convinced that they would somehow make it. Most of their families had died in the famine and finally, they had been given every last penny by their relatives so they could make this journey. 

When he had first met them, the plan had been to kill them both at the end of the night. But that was out of the question now. If anything, he’d make sure they got to America safely and find them a place to work as handmaidens in a wealthy household or sewing girls in a factory so they did not end up in the whorehouses. That is – if Helen was still alive, which he very much doubted right now.

Mary had not seen him coming nor heard him approach. Another vampire thing, even if you made an effort to be loud, you hardly ever were unless you bumped into noisy things. Her face lit up when he crouched down next to the girl and grinned up at her.

"Oh, it's you, Mister Salvatore," she said, fumbling with her old woolen skirt, batting her lashes.

She was still shy around him, but at least she had stopped calling him 'Sir'. That was progress.

"Hello Mary, how are you?"

"I am fine. I was just teaching Polly a song I picked up."

Damon grinned, sitting down on the floor and holding Polly with one arm so she was leaning against his upper body. Polly looked at him with a suspicious expression, but when he gave her his warmest smile, she smiled back. He wondered what future was waiting for her. He hoped it was a good one.

"Oh what song? Do I know it?"

Mary blushed.

"I don't think you know it. It's called 'The Water is Wild'."

Damon smiled again.

"Never heard of it. Will you teach it to me as well?"

She blushed, but she didn't protest. Mary's voice was clear and bright, the voice of a girl who had sung a lot, but had never developed any airs about it. 

_[…] Oh_ _love be handsome and love be kind_

_Gay as a jewel when first it is new_

_But love grows old and waxes cold_

_And fades away like the morning dew_

_Must I go bound while you go free_

_Must I love a man who doesn't love me_

_Must I be born with so little art_

_As to love a man who'll break my heart […]_

Damon frowned.

"What a gloomy song," he stated. "Shouldn't one as young and beautiful as you have a more positive outlook on love?"

Mary sighed and looked at him with those green eyes that carried the weight of the world although they had only been in it for about two decades.

"I think only rich girls can afford to be romantics."

"I think you should feel whatever you want to feel," Damon retorted. "And I know you aren't as much as a cynic as you pretend to be."

Mary's eyes went dark.

"I know what you mean and I know you have been all kind and good to me and to Helen, but … Not everybody's like you, Mister Salvatore."

He sensed fear in her words and a growl wanted to escape his throat. So it was true. Somebody was stealing apples from his tree. 

"What happened, Mary? Where's Helen?"

Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I don't remember, Mister Salvatore," she exclaimed. "I know I should, but it's all a blur, as if I had way too much to drink. One moment she was with me and then she was gone and I... I know there was a man with her. Not a gentleman. He wasn't clad as finely as you. But he didn't belong down here either. And he was kind at first but... "

She trailed off and Damon understood that she had been compelled and sloppily at that. Her half-memory put her in danger, though. Whoever was prowling about the ship did probably not want to be noticed and if he found out that Mary had remembered bits of their meeting, the vampire would come back and feed on her next. Get rid of the evidence. And Damon realized there was no way he'd let someone else feed on beautiful, hopeful Mary. 

"Where did they go?" he enquired urgingly, taking Mary's trembling hand, offering a bit of comfort.

She looked up and her eyes were full of terror.

"I think they went to... to the storage... you know where... where the cars are."

Damon pushed Polly away from his lap and towards the young woman before he stood up and brushed the dust off his trousers.

"I'm going to find Helen," he promised to Mary. "And I'll come back afterwards. And you will forget about the stranger", he added with his pupils dilating.

She nodded and then asked: "What stranger?"

Damon cursed under his breath as he walked away. Brilliant. Why were people such idiots all the time? If one decided to go aboard a ship and have a snack during the journey, one needed to be careful and sensible about this. Nothing about abducting Helen seemed very sensible or careful right now. Also – whoever had done it must have seen the bitemarks on her neck, must have known she had been used as supply by someone else. Doing what the unknown vampire had done was a bit like stealing food from somebody else's plate. It was bad style. Very bad style. And Damon was in no mood to let it go un-chastised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Water is Wide" is a traditional Irish/Scottish song. A beautiful rendition by Halyley Westenra can be found on youtube.  
> On a side-note: FF-authors are all suckers for comments, so if you like this, please leave a comment and let me know. I know it's probably not going to become that popular, because I decided to go down the path of not having Elena and/or Buffy involved in the plot (and because as always, I am very unlikely to include actual smut in this), but if I even make five people happy with an update, it's more than I hoped for.


	4. 1912/2

Spike knew it was a bad idea to choose the girl. Not to say, it was infinitely bad style as well, because she had obviously been fed on by somebody else so he was someone else's territory. Someone with very sharp fangs who knew what he was doing, if the tiny incisions that had almost healed off already, were anything to go by. Yet, sometimes, instinct won over brains. In his case, that happened a lot. And this girl, Helen, was just perfect. He had taken her without knowing how great she smelled, of course, because inhaling in the cramped confinements of the third class made the toughest vampire gag. He had led her into the garage to have a sniff and a bite and just when he saw the marks and his brain realized he was definitely better off not biting her, his nose had caught her scent and well – he was a man, his cervical functions were easily overpowered. 

He also liked that she was struggling. Most of the vampires he knew tended to go for the seduce-first-bite-second method. But the predator in Spike's heart preferred his prey afraid and trembling and Helen was very good at both. When she saw him transform and bare his fangs, he could hear her heart skip a beat and then start a race for the exit.

"Oh my God," she whimpered.

"There's no God," he replied dryly, licking his lips. "At least I have never met him."

She tasted like spring and hope and dreams. She tasted fresh and clean. And he gulped down mouthful after mouthful of her blood. He'd not been feeding for a while, because he had massively miscalculated the chances of doing so unobserved. Second class was the worst place for a vampire, he thought. People in second class were neither poor nor shallow enough to not care for each other. Damn humanity. He inhaled deeply, drank in Helen's scent together with the blood. It was ecstatic. But her heartbeat was already slowing. If he didn't stop now, he'd probably finish her off. But who cared? She was a third-class girl in a world that was too harsh and too tough for her to survive unscathed anyway. Better end her life now. She was gasping in pleasure now, just as they always did. 

And then she went rigid in his arms, losing consciousness. He drank until her heart finally stopped beating and then let her drop to the floor. He felt amazing, intoxicated, high, drunk. Fuck, it was great being a vampire. And then something hit him from behind with the force of a bull, pinning him to the floor and letting out an eerie growl. The next moment, he was catapulted through the air, crashing into a pile of boxes at the other end of the big storage area. While he was digging himself out, he could hear his attacker's voice.

"Helen? Helen? Oh, shit, Helen!"

The voice became louder, a threatening roar.

"Whoever you are, you are going to pay for this."

One of the boxes had broken when Spike had landed on it and he could smell cabbage. Of all things, he had to land in the kitchen supplies. He flew back out to meet his attacker, but the guy – whoever he was – had anticipated him and they collided in the air, crashing to the floor. Spike landed on his back. If he had needed lungs to survive, the fall would have driven all air out of them. As it was, it only incapacitated him for a second before he managed to turn around in a bit of a struggle and face his opponent.

"You?" both of them hissed simultaneously.

Bet on coincidence throwing them into each other's way again. Spike noted that they probably weren't drinking buddies any more now that he had crossed the line and taken one of Damon Salvatore's supplicants without asking.

The dark-haired American was the first one to get over his surprise, lifting Spike off the floor a little, then banging his head back onto it with quite a bit of deliberation again.

"I can't believe you did this!" he shouted angrily, fangs protruding from his mouth, eyes reddened in anger. "Are you out of your mind? You can't just kill off people on a ship! It's like a microcosmos. Somebody's gonna miss her!"

"I was going to take care of that."

"How? By compelling all of them? This is third class, Spike! They live like rats. There's no space, no privacy. It comes with getting to know each other. Also, I believed you to have more class than stealing other people's food."

"From the way you reacted right there, I guess she was more than food?"

Bad idea, Spike. He's at least as strong as you and he's angry as hell. Provoking him is not going to end well.

It didn't.

It ended with Spike crashing through the front window of a Chrysler. Damon was on him again in less than a second. The kid was quick. Spike pulled a lopsided smile. 'The Kid' was hardly correct, of you thought about it. The Salvatores had been turned before him and although he had spent more of his life being human, he was still the younger and, therefore, weaker vampire.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you had actual feelings for this girl," he snarled, not taking his own advice.

Next thing he knew Damon had pulled out the braking handle from its socket and drove it through his chest, marginally missing his heart. It hurt. A lot. 

"You missed," Spike stated. 

Damon shook his head.

"I thought you knew me better than that. If I wanted to do this quickly, I'd have already done it. I want you to suffer. And suffer, you will."

Spike grinned. His left hand had found its way into his vest and produced a small syringe without the furious Damon noticing. He rammed the needle into the other vampire's back and felt his body go limb.

"No, I won't," he murmured, before getting up and sauntering off. 

He'd have to get himself someone else to drink now that the idiot had half-staked him.


	5. 1912/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a massive thing for dancing!Damon so there's going to be some dancing featured in this story. This is the first part of it. I took the liberty to have the Titanic band play tango. I don't think they did in real life, because it had just started to become popular in Europe and had not yet lost its stigma completely. But I hope you enjoy this nonetheless. No Spike in this chapter. A lot of Spike to come in the next one though.

Vervain! Curse the day on which Damon had told Spike about the weed. Back then, they had had the mutual aim to flee their imprisonment and he had been surprised that the Englishman had never heard of the herb before. Why had he not just kept that information to himself? Sharing information with strangers – almost never a good idea. Especially not if it was information that could give said stranger the upper hand in a fight. 

Damon growled and staggered to his feet. He'd not be able to win another fight against the blond vampire tonight. Not with the Vervain in his system. He'd have to feed. And to sleep... and just possibly do other things that involved a bed as well. He just had to hope that Spike wouldn't do anything terminally stupid and blatantly obvious in the meantime – trust Spike to betray that hope. Damon walked over to Helen's pale corpse and sighed before lifting her up. She felt heavier now she was dead. Her limb body sagged in his arms and he had to clench his teeth not do drop her. How concentrated had the solution been that Spike had injected into his veins? He was glad the stuff did not impair his superior hearing, so he could make sure no unwelcome humans stumbled onto the scene as he picked up a huge metal crate and a rope on the way before carrying Helen outside and towards the railing. There was neither time nor space to dispose of her body in any other way. He bit his lip. This was not what he had wanted for her. He looked down at her face one last time, but her features had been blurred by death. Without her signature smile and the almost permanent little frown on her forehead, she was nothing but an empty shell. It was an effect he had witnessed over and over again throughout the years. It made killing so much easier. And yet... He had liked Helen. Genuinely liked her. He growled. First thing he'd have to do as soon as his strength was restored, was to make sure Mary was safe. He'd compel her so she did not wander off with blonde buffoons from second class.

"Good bye, Helen," he murmured before quickly securing the crate to her waist with the rope and dropping her body over the side of the ship into the water. She sank immediately, being consumed by the dark ocean waves.

Damon stood in the dark for a few minutes and inhaled the salty air. Although he didn't really need to breathe, doing so reminded him of what it meant to be human. He sighed and made his way back to his room in first class. He'd have to change into clean clothes before he could mix with the high society again. 

Half an hour later, he entered the salon of the ship. He'd skipped dinner, but there was supposed to be a dance tonight and there was no way he was going to miss out on that. It was strangely fascinating to be the wolf amidst a flock of sheep, unnoticed, unknown. 

"There you are, Mr Salvatore", Olivia Bennet greeted him with a smile. 

She was pretty as all upper-class girls were pretty. Her dress matched the current fashion, her curls had been fixed to her head in an elaborate hairdo. Her skin was pale white and powdered so she looked like a life-sized porcelain doll. She was also as shallow as a baby-pool. And in love with a dark-haired, blue-eyed American. She wore a shawl around her neck that matched her dark blue dress and Damon was reminded of another pretty girl in another blue dress. He closed his eyes for a second, pushing back his memories of Katherine. She was gone. Dead. Taken from him forever. And in the end, she had never been his. Not truly. 

"I already thought we had lost you. I didn't see you at dinner."

"I was detained by business matters", he responded. 

The Mr Salvatore she knew had obtained his wealth by owning gold mines and oil wells. Both was frowned upon in the aristocratic circles. Old money did not like new money. But new money usually had more actual wealth to show than the old families nowadays. He had been accepted into the circles of first class, because he had impeccable manners on top of being a handsome eligible bachelor.

Damon could not help but notice once more, how the ship was a mirror of society. First class was roomy to an extent that seemed impossible on a boat. There were huge cabins, where one person did not have one but two spacious rooms at their disposal. Everything was always clean and proper and positively decadent. There were chandeliers with electric lights, there were thick carpets and wide staircases that served no purpose but to display the ladies and gentlemen who walked down them every night. There was champagne and mindless chatter, conversation that sounded meaningful but had no content whatsoever. The ladies wore a different dress almost every night, and another dress during daytime. Most of them had spent a fortune on new attire before coming aboard, because mind you, this was an occasion that warranted expenses, as one would be seen and photographed aboard and the Lord forbid if the dress one was wearing did not comply with the latest developments in the fashion world. 

They were blind to the fact – or pretended to be blind to the fact – that just a short stroll away, there was a very different world. A world in which three children or two adults shared a bunk bed, in which there was stew for dinner every day. People in third class often owned nothing more than what they carried on their person. 

In a way, it was interesting to see these two worlds so close together and yet apart. Damon hated the first-class society. He hated them all with a passion, because they believed that their wealth was deserved, God-given. They believed to be entitled to their lifestyle and they also believed that all the workers in third class were lesser beings. Some of the old money families talked about them as if they were animals, scum, as worthless as the rats that they shared their quarters with. New money was a bit different. These people came from poorer backgrounds – although mostly they would have been second rather than third class passengers before they obtained their wealth – and they were aware of the imbalance between rich and poor. Damon felt that change was coming. He was looking forward to it. 

Admittedly, he enjoyed the fact that he had his own room aboard and that it contained a bed and other luxuries. Nonetheless, he was aware that his room would still have been more than sufficient for his needs, had it been half as big. The thing was, he had been born into a wealthy family and he'd never have been able to pretend to be part of the working class. His accent and demeanour, even his posture and his un-calloused hands would have given him away just as much as his pale skin. So, he had chosen the easiest path. Over the centuries, vampires had always mingled with royalty. It was so easy to do it. Everybody here wore a mask and it was more or less expected that you played a role. Pretence was everything in these circles. And vampires were masters of pretence.

As was expected of him, he asked Olivia to dance. The band usually played waltzes, two-steps and foxtrots and it was expected that there always remained a decent amount of space between the dancers. Damon pulled Olivia just an inch closer than propriety allowed, making her giggle and blush. His hand rested firmly on her back, his left hand supported her slender glove-clad arm. She was not a good dancer, but he had had enough practice to lead her through the dance in a flowing, flawless motion, the leather soles of his shoes just providing enough friction to not make him slip on the polished floor. 

He was positively surprised when the band played a tango next. The dance had just recently found its way onto the dance floors of Europe and was still looked upon as a little "too wild" although the British had done everything to tame the hell out of the original dance and cram it into the confines of standard dancing. An idea crossed Damon's thoughts and he smiled.

"Do you feel adventurous tonight, Miss Bennet?"

She looked up at him and met his eyes, her gaze a little confused. It was the normal human reaction when being entranced by a vampire mixed with the infatuation of the silly upper-class girl with the handsome, unknown gentleman.

"What are you suggesting, Mr Salvatore?"

"I don't know if I ever told you I have been to Buenos Aíres a while ago. I have seen how they dance the tango there. It's very different from this. It's got fire, passion, desire. It's wild and wonderful. I could teach you some of it, if you want to."

He knew she would consent, before she told him so. There was no need to compel her. These girls were dressed up like dolls and pressed into their mindset of being nice, pretty and shallow little things, always pleasing and well behaved. But nature was a strong force and if you offered them a taste of the forbidden fruit, they would always go for it. 

He led her to one of the neighbouring rooms that could be used as a retreat if people needed a breather from the party. The music was still audible in here. Olivia giggled, glancing back over her shoulder, aware of the fact that she should not be alone in a room with a gentleman.

Damon lifted his hand and turned her face back towards him. 

"Look at me, don't think about your feet, don't think about the steps. Just follow my lead and listen to the music. Imagine we are in Argentina, in a smoke-filled bar. There's cheap liquor and cheap women and a band. There's a bandoneon player and a fiddle. You will have to step closer to me. Like this. The dance floor is full, we don't have space to be decent."

He pulled her closer and she obliged. Of course, she did. She was his, had been his from the first night on. He had made her forget about the fact that he had tasted her blood and made sure the punctures were so small nobody without a very trained eye would even notice them. 

He let his right hand slide down her back, so it rested much lower. He dropped the rigidity that came with standard dancing and started moving his hips. She drew in a breath and tensed up. 

"Don't worry. We are just dancing. Dancing tango the proper way. The way it is danced in South America. The way it is supposed to be danced. Let me show you."

He placed her arms around his neck and placed his hands on her hips, leading her into the motion. She struggled a little at first, because it was unfamiliar territory. But she eased into it quickly enough.

He closed his eyes. The music was not perfect. What he had experienced in Buenos Aíres had been much rawer much wilder, much more honest than the British pendant, the watered-down version they played in the ballrooms all over Europe, would ever be. Sensual, entrancing. But he had always been good at imagining things, daydreaming about other realities in which Katherine did not prefer his brother. In which Katherine, first and foremost, was not dead.

And now here he was, in a dark bar. It smelled of tobacco, stale alcohol and sweat. A group of men had brought out their instruments, the old fiddle and the battered bandoneon as damaged and scarred as their owners. They played with the passion that was unique to the area, that spoke of misery and hope, of passion and sadness, of hatred and love. 

Damon looked down at the woman in his arms. Her familiar brown eyes were fixed on his face, her curly brown hair was unruly and fell over her bare shoulders. She wore a red dress that clung to her upper body, revealed a fair share of bosom and flared out into a flowing, knee-length skirt. 

Katherine. Had he found her? Had she found him? He didn't know. He tried to pull her closer, but she resisted and took a step back on her high heels, her hips swaying to the beat. He followed her. Playing the game. They moved in the rhythm, clung to each other for seconds, just to part ferociously the next moment, Damon's outstretched arm only marginally saving Katherine from crashing into the wall, then pulling her back into an embrace. Her scent in his nostrils, her seductive half-smile in his line of sight. If he could just stay in this moment forever.

The music changed again. A lively tune replaced the tango and Damon was pulled back into reality. Olivia looked a little dishevelled, a little heated, a little too much as if she had just experienced the vertical equivalent to a horizontal act. He presented her with a cocky smile, pushed down her shawl and kissed her neck before quickly bearing his fangs and gulping down a few mouthfuls of her youthful blood. Just like everything about her, her blood was mediocre at best. He had not yet found out what was to blame for some people tasting better than others, whether it was their diet or something else entirely. He licked off the residual blood, then covered the marks with the shawl again. She was under his spell so completely that he didn't need to renew the compellation. 

"Thank you for the dance, Miss Bennet," he said with a bow and walked back into the ballroom as if nothing had happened. He felt much better already, the effects of Vervain slowly wearing off. And he decided to pay another visit to Mary, make sure she was all right. Kill Spike on the way, if he ended up crossing his path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is such a random idea and I am purely writing it because my brain ran haywire and I needed to get this story out of my system, I still hope there are some people out there who like this and read it. If you are one of them, I would love to know you are there. Reviews are to authors what blood is for vampires. <3


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